


Long Road to Ruin

by writeshite



Category: The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Other, haymiss - Freeform, hayniss - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 19:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeshite/pseuds/writeshite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don’t care about the flowers in the picture, I care that if I let him kiss me he’ll taste the burning liquor on my lips left there by the person whose hand comes to mind when I feel Peeta’s on my shoulder as he comes to stand behind me."</p>
<p>Years have passed. Things have changed. Mostly. For the nation they are happily married, overcoming the obstacles set in their path by the old world. Behind closed doors, his episodes never faded. They're somehow worse. And it's killing her. Killing them. The rubble foundations on which they built their splintered marriage are peeking through the facade. She can't deal with it. Really she never could. And Haymitch is there, and Haymitch knows. Knows, and understands, and is there. And that is enough. But moving in the shadows, behind Peeta's back, is it any way to live? The guilt only builds in Katniss's mind, but things can only get better, right?..Right..?<br/>...Wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_Prologue_ **

The crisp autumn air rushes coolly past my ears, carrying the faint echo of umber leaves that crunch underfoot as I walk up the path toward my house. Our house. My jacket, the old brown leather warm and familiar as it wraps around me, bundling me up against the brittle air around me. Fingers curl around the cool metal of the doorknob as open the door, stepping through into the little cloud of warmth that comes from the house. It’s always warm. Peeta likes it. I do to, but sometimes the stuffiness of it creeps over me with the constant nerving presence of my husband’s teetering stability and I have to escape elsewhere. Though not always to the cool and calm of the woods; the rooms in the other house are often seeping with brisk drafts, curling curtains with the breeze from doors ajar and poorly repaired windows.

As I step through the smell hits me immediately: the heavy perfume of oil paints that weighs upon the air as I move through the hall. I’m sure it adds to the warmth of the air, it’s familiar smell that I’ve come to associate with home and with him. With quiet steps I move toward the door of the back room where the faint scratches of worn brushes against canvas can be dimly heard, hovering in the doorway as I watch the movements of his hand let the brush flow delicately over the painting of a bunch of flowers that sit in a vase before him on the dining table. It hardly looks like he’s touching the pristine canvas with his light strokes. There’s a pointed look of concentration on his face, but it melts from his features and the corners of his lips turn up into a sweetened smile as he notices I’m there. “Hey” he says warmly as he sets down his implements and stands, I feel obliged to mimic his easy movements as he starts walking towards me, baggy shirt flecked with paint and arms out wide to welcome me. “Good hunt?” he asks and any recognition of my lack of game is buried completely by his innocent tone. He is innocent. Innocent and kind and sweet and pure. And he tries, he tries to hold my interest and tries to make our lives bearable with each other. But I see him when he can’t look at me with his muscles strained and teeth clenched as his fists bunched. I feel him when he thinks I’m still asleep and his body lurches forward in the bed beside me with a scream restrained in his throat for fear he’ll wake me. I hear it in the way he snaps at me in the slightest of words when I’m pushing for any sort of acceptance that I am the dreadful remains of a person he once loved that he refuses to acknowledge. And all of it comes crashing into my brain at once when he puts his arms around me. As strong and secure as they ever were, and it’s a reflex now to return the hold, no matter how much softer my own arms are compared to his. “No, nothing really” I mumble over his shoulder and hope it’s enough to hold down the lie. I prepare the image in my mind of the woods damp and patterned with cold sunlight through the canopy and my arrow firing and barely scathing a small deer. It’s blurred and marred with my own lie but it’s enough to steady me in his arms and the calmness of his body is all I need to accept that it worked. Now all I can hope is that he doesn’t smell the bitterness on my clothes that doesn’t come from the kind of dirt you pick up in the woods. And when he moves back with a small smile I know his head is about to move closer to mine and I duck out of his arms, “It’s beautiful” the words are quick to leave my lips and fight the fever that brews in my throat as I stand and admire the painting with half glazed eyes. I don’t care about the flowers in the picture, I care that if I let him kiss me he’ll taste the burning liquor on my lips left there by the person whose hand comes to mind when I feel Peeta’s on my shoulder as he comes to stand behind me. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I wake the next morning the sheets are bundled around me, wrapping me in white that catches the golden rays that seep in through the glass, unprotected by thin curtains that I can only presume Peeta has drawn back to let the morning in. Though he’s nowhere to be seen. With lazy movements I untangle myself from the bedding and reluctantly swing my legs over the side of the bed to allow my feet to meet the cold wood of the floor. My eyes feel dazed with the dregs of sleep that slowly drift from my body as I will myself to make my way downstairs, toward the warm smell of baking that has become a normality, and I won’t deny it’s one I increasingly take for granted.

The pale night-shirt I managed to throw on before stumbling into bed last night isn’t enough to ward off the cool air that filters through the house, but it’s not a problem, I like it. It’s dull but brittle, and it reminds me of the fragility of our situation. Of its glass like nature that I sometimes forget. It’s been years now. Years since the games, since returning to twelve; things were never going to be as they were, but he was determined to try for second best if that wasn’t going to be an option. I suppose in his head that was the sweet little life where eventually everything that had happened would wear away, would dissolve into the past and our scares would heal forever and the sun would always be shining. It doesn’t work like that. He always was an idealist. But I can’t blame him. He’s hopeful. I’ve never known anyone with such hope. And it’s gently settled into his features as i look into the kitchen from the bottom of the stairs; he stands at the counter, lifting a tin of steaming bread from the oven with a comforting smile painted delicately on his lips. The pleasant, savoury aroma of golden cheese cooked into the crust floats through the air and draws a pleased hum from my lips without me even realising. His head turns, smile widening as he sees me. “Morning” he says softly, setting the tin down. “Morning” is my uncreative response, running a hand through the dark hair that falls freely over my shoulders as I move into the kitchen. This is what Peeta does, what he’s always done; give me bread. Give me hope. Offer me some small gesture that reassures me that everything’s going to be alright. Even though in the pit of my stomach that stirs and knots as he puts his arm around my waist, somehow I believe it. Apparently I’m looking at that bread like I haven’t eaten in days because he chuckles and gives my body a squeeze sayin “You can’t have any just yet, it’s too hot”, and I just have to chuckle in response. It does smell good though, and I can feel my mouth salivating at the thought. He presses a kiss atop my head and meanders off to attend to breakfast, and I’m more than happy to let him get on with it. This is our routine. Peeta rises early, makes breakfast for us, and finds something somehow interesting to do with the rest of the day while I spend my time in the woods. As he sets about brewing tea in a medium sized pot I wander off toward the living room, where again the curtains have been drawn to let in the crisp autumn light of the morning. The unexpected warmth of the room comes from the fire that Peeta has already lit; soft orange coals throwing dancing flickers of reds and golds over the stones of the fireplace. Light glints in the glass of the picture frames that sit across the mantle; a photograph of my mother in her dull nurses uniform outside her modest home in four. Our wedding photo. Peeta in his simple, dark suit and I in my pretty white dress. We’re in the sun, outside, a bunch of cornflower blue blooms in my hands and the odd bud twined into the thin braids that hold up my hair. Peeta looks ecstatic; even I look happy. And as usual, I can’t look at it for long. But something else catches my attention: hung in pride of place above the mantle, the large canvas beautifully swirled with oils in tones of purple and pink, green stems of flowers pointing from a glinting glass vase. The strokes are too beautiful to be real. Too smooth and too illuminating. Picking out the prettiest parts of the blooms and holding them there in the paint. I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring at it when Peeta’s voice jerks me back into reality, “Oh, yeah. I finished it last night. Do you like it?” It’s the canvas he was working on when I arrived home last night, and I can’t concede how “Beautiful” it is. This makes him smile. I think he likes it when I approve of something he does. Like a confirmation I actually do pay attention to him. He steps over to me, admiring the painting himself with a proud look washed over his features as he offers me a mug of tea. We stand there together for a few moments before I seek solace on the couch. My legs bundled up beneath me as I curl into the cushions but Peeta comes and seats himself on the other side. I guess at least I can take some comfort in the fact that he doesn’t come right up next to me.

“Did you have any plans for today?”

“Not really. Just the woods.”

“Right. Well, I thought we could maybe do something. You know, together?”

“Oh…What did you have in mind?”

“I don’t know. We could take a walk? Go into the town, I could even come to the wood with you?”

“…I don’t think so. You and the woods don’t go well together. You scare away all the game.”

It’s enough to bring a smrik and a giggle to the both of us, though I mean it about him not joining me in the woods. He shakes his head as he brings his cup to his lips, but the way his eyes cast down as he does it sends a pang of guilt straight through my gut. He’s sensitive about his leg, but not enough to let it get to him, unless it threatens his capabilities, which is exactly what I’ve just managed to point out. My chuckle fades as I bury it into my own mouthful of tea, the smile quietly slipping from my features. But he doesn’t stop. The sound is forced through his pressed lips in a strained hum, the noise wrenched from him as the mug conceals his lips though his eyes are tightly closed. “Peeta…?” I ask. I can’t help it, it’s reflex now, to ask what’s wrong whenever something like this happens despite knowing full well what’s about to occur. Hurried hands set my mug down on the coffee table as I warily pry myself out of my chair, Peeta still clutches his in front of his face, crazed hums of laughter dulling into hard groans through gritted teeth as his smile twists into a grimace, fingers curling around the mug and clenching there. I don’t want to touch him. I’m afraid to touch him. He wouldn’t hurt me, not in his right mind. But that’s just it. He isn’t in his right mind. Not anymore. Peeta is gone. His body starts to shake as I back away with careful steps while my pulse throws itself up my throat on a wave of bile as I feel my blood come to still in my veins. “Peeta…?” I can feel the crack in my voice, the way my tone rises in panic but just looking at him like this scares me half to death. His thoughts and feelings are predictable; the recurring sensation of shock that ripples through him like an electric current, tearing at his muscles and his mind trying to turn his body against me. By the time his hands are so ridden with tremors that they launch the cup across the floor my yelp is only heard from the doorway where my feet jump to avoid the scatter of broken porcelain that flies over the dark wood. Fingers dig into the arm of the couch, leaving indents in the fabric, grounding him in the moment as best he can. “…I-It’s ok, Peeta. It’s alright, you’re ok. You’re at home. You’re safe.” There’s encouragement in my words that isn’t present in my voice as it shakes beyond my control. Tears begin to prickle the rims of my eyes as he fights against himself.

Unbearable. That’s the only word for this. Unbearable.

And all at once I’m swallowed by all my guilt. All the pain that I’ve caused this man that struggles to win the fight against his own mind as he starts to writhe on the couch. I want to scream. I find myself having to bite down on my lip as hard as I can just to stop myself as my tears cloud my vision, trembling hands braced on the doorframe. I’m sorry for the games. I’m sorry for your leg. I’m sorry for your family. I’m sorry for the war. I’m sorry for what they did to you. I’m sorry for Haymitch. And just like that his hands rip out from the arm of the couch, clawed fingers with pale knuckles held out in front of him in defense as his eyes burn me where I stand. “Get out!” he cries, voice low. It’s a threat. I can’t find the will to move my feet so all I can do is raise my palms to him to show I mean no harm, words stammering on my lips that struggle to break into the air to calm him down. “I said get out! Get away from me!” and the look he gives me. I know I deserve it. For all I’ve put him through. For all I still put him through. For all the lies and the deceit. I deserve the way he looks at me like something inhuman. Like a mutt. Because that’s what I am to him, somewhere, in some distant part of his brain that takes no pains to resurface; always. “…Peeta” it’s a vague final attempt. Just because I deserve it doesn’t mean I like it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t shatter me to my core. His feet move. Shuffle forwards, hands still held out but one begins to drift down. Did he hear me? Does he understand? A small sigh leaves me. It’s not over yet. But it’s a start. My hands slowly start to come down though I can’t seem to control the shaking in them or the rest of my body that jerks tears from the rims of my eyes. “Peeta, you’re safe here, you’re-“.

And I’m cut off by the teapot that crashes into the doorframe just beside my head.

The porcelain shatters upon impact and sprays over me and across the ground. I can feel the coarse edges of splintered fragments graze against my skin, some of the smaller pieces sticking into my arm as I turn my body away from the impact. The sound cracks across the room and when I snap my head round to look up it’s already too late. Suddenly his strong hands that were supposed to comfort me are coiled around the tops of my arms, pushing me out into the hall and slamming my body against the staircase with a thud against the wood. “What do you want? What do you want with me?” his voice is desperate and angered as he spits the questions at me, and the tears return to my eyes. I can’t even hold up my hands to protest, “Peeta, please, it’s not real, you’re fine, you’re safe, I’m not going to hurt you-“

”LIAR!”

“P-Peeta, I’m not going to hurt you, I’m not—“

“You’re lying! You mutt! You fucking MUTT!”

“I’m not going to hurt you! You’re safe! No one wants to hurt you it’s in your head!”

“Liar, you liar, you’re a mutt, I’m not listening to you!”

I’m pushing against his chest but I just can’t move him, the strength of his body has me pinned where I stand. He can be ok, I tell myself, he can come back from this. But what if he can’t? The thought creeps into my brain at exactly the worst moment as I feel his hand fumble and shift from my arm to climb toward my neck. Panic floods my veins, my heart leaps into my throat where Peeta’s fingers try to grasp for it. I have an arm free but it makes no difference, with one hand on my throat I can feel the pressure on my lungs already as I desperately try to heave in oxygen. But he wastes no time in cutting it off. “P-eet-a” I cough, resorting to clawing at his hands as the other one connects with my neck, fingers that could be so delicate enough to paint sweet flowers now wrap forcefully around my neck. Spots begin to appear in the side of my vision as my mouth dries up, legs flying at him now to try and get him away, reasoning is no use to me anymore. Between his outstretched limbs I can see my bare legs kicking at his stance, and it’s the first thing I can think of, but I take it. I send my foot colliding into his gut, just catching the top of his hip and knocking him an inch or so back. It’s not much, not enough to throw his hands from my neck, bearing his teeth at me now with his screams, but it is enough to get some force behind my leg as I send it in for another blow. I catch his ribs this time. His grip doesn’t fall from me completely but it loosens as he doubles over, letting me slip out from under him and stagger down the hall, sucking air into my greedy lungs as deeply as I can force it. His ragged breaths in the background as he tries to recover himself don’t last, he’s stumbling after me, clutching his gut in a matter of seconds. I don’t know what he intends to do, whatever thoughts he has whirring behind those wild eyes are not ones I want to see realised. I don’t intend on sticking around to find out either way. Wind whips at my shirt as I heave open the front door, spluttering for breaths of cold air that sink into my lungs bringing more relief than I’d anticipated as I throw myself out into the brittle morning. The key comes with me. Always in the door as a precaution in the event of any accident like a fire; but this had never crossed my mind. Still I’m thankful for it as I tear it out of the lock and pull the door back with all my weight behind it and slam the key back into the lock to seal him in. Fists pound against the wood, but I don’t linger on the doorstep to let them crack through my mind. My feet carry me through damp ground and dried leaves broken into the soil as I run. The air doesn’t reach the deeper part of my lungs and I can still feel the quaking in my bones, but it’s out of my control. I don’t stop until I’m at the next house on our excuse for a road. Worn legs stumbling up the path and tripping onto the flagstones that graze my bare shins. Cold air tearing at my legs and cutting through the vague protection of my nightshirt. The worn door is open, as it always is, and I practically fall into the hall, letting the wind carry the door closed for me. I stay in this small heap; legs bitten by stone falls and feet caked in dirt. Small spats of blood on the arm of my night shirt from where the fragments of the teapot have caught my skin, and there’s a sick throbbing in the back of my head that echoes down my spine. And I don’t want to move. I let my sobs churn up from my throat, letting them tumble onto the cold wood floor of the house. No one will hear me, so I don’t bother trying to hide it. I can’t even take the weight of my own body as I let myself slump onto my side, lying there with tears trailing down my cheeks.

When I finally manage to gather myself my whole being seems to waver. Cold no longer feeling pleasant. My throat worn and dry from sobbing. Shuffled feet take me through the mess that litters the floor of the house and to the kitchen –though the state of it isn’t much better- and over the empty bottles to where I know there are ones that hold what I’m looking for. What I’m in need of. What I know can hold me warmly, softly, with the heat of comfort that I need. And I do need it. I’m not like him though, I don’t need it the way he needs it. I’m not that far gone. As I unscrew the cap even the faint scent releases a wave of relief that washes over me. And the mouthfuls are sweeter still. I got used to the taste. The bitterness never went away, I only learnt to tolerate it. But it seems to be part of its charm. My fingers hold the neck of the bottle lightly in their grip as I hold myself up against the counter with my other hand, head bowed as I try and steady my breathing from lungs that tremble with the rest of me. Though all I can see is my feet against the grimy tiles of his kitchen floor. Even there they look filthy. Mud ground into the soles and dirt worked in between my toes, a dried leaf or two clinging grimly to them. It’s not to preserve the current state of his house, more because I feel a hard wired need to wash. I want to be clean. Clean of this dirt. Clean of Peeta’s outburst. Clean of my guilt. Clean.

The sound of water must wake him. Because as I scrub against my skin I can hear the muffled groans of displeasure and him banging into furniture beyond the sound of the shower. As I stand under the stream, letting the warmth run over my skin, the idea of moving seems impossible. But there’s only so much comfort I can take in being alone. I’m not alone for long though, and it seems I don’t have much of a choice in moving as I hear the door crash open and fly into the wall as Haymitch staggers in. He doesn’t see me in the shower, rather makes some kind of an attempt to stand up straight and gather himself, or at least try and get his bearings. If I’m honest I don’t even think he knows he’s in his own bathroom. And for the second time today I’m proved drastically wrong as he sways to the side, dropping to the ground before the toilet and throwing up. His aim is poor. Half of the rancid mess falls over the shirt and pants he wore yesterday while the rest somehow finds its way into the bowel. I heave a sigh as I step out of the bath, leaving the shower running as I grab a towel that hangs over the edge of a shelf. Washing in Haymitch’s house is never a totally satisfying experience; you never feel properly clean. The layer of grime that seems to cover everything in his home isn’t escaped by much. The ring of limescale around the tub; the rust on the taps and shower; the mould between the tiles. I step out of the stream and feel filthy again as soon as I start to pat myself down while Haymitch heaves up what’s left in his stomach. But it’s a different kind of filth. Not the harsh, bitter filth that brews inside me and seeps out of my pores, but one that clings to my skin. Lightly coats it. A layer that I can disguise me in the mess and let me sink into it. It’s familiar, and it’s comfortable. I set the towel down to slip my shirt back on, letting my wet hair fall down my back. Then I turn my attention to Haymitch. He spits into the toilet and I think he’s only vaguely aware of my presence as I step up behind him, “Come on” I mutter, putting my arm under his and trying to heave him to his feet. Thankfully he’s of a mind to make his legs work and makes my job a lot easier as I lumber him towards the shower. Thin mumbles move his lips dimly as his brows furrow down at me. There’s no point telling him why I’m here at this hour while he’s in this state, so I don’t. I manage –somehow- to get him into the tub, though he can’t get in alone; I have to join him in the tub, standing him under the stream and letting the water take the flecks of vomit from the scruff of his beard as he stares vacantly at the tiles on the wall; though his eyes slowly begin to draw back into the real world and his hands start to run over his face to aid the washing. The residues of bile still cling to his chin and neck and he doesn’t seem to be getting at them so I have to help him, collecting water in my hand and cleaning it away. The spray of water dampens my shirt, though it’s no loss, the blood and dirt that speckle its pale fabric could do with the water, so I don’t mind. Haymitch’s shirt is on another level. Thickly caked down the front in bile and chunks of whatever he managed to feed himself after I left last night. My features screw into a grimace at the mess as I let out a sigh, and it turns out he’s more aware of it than I thought as his head drops down to look at it, languid hands moving up to pick at the buttons. “Come here” I sigh impatiently, trying to work around the vomit that seems immune to the flow of water and peeling it off him, tossing it into the corner of the bathroom. “There. I’m gonna get you some clean clothes. Don’t fall and die or anything while I’m gone.” The cracked mirror in the room has misted up with the heat of the water and the grime on the tiles has turned tacky as I step off the ragged bathmat. He seems capable of keeping himself upright as he flicks at the vomit staining his pants, moving to shuffle his belt to get rid of them. I decide to go and muddle through the clothes strewn around his room. It’s as much of a mess as the rest of the house. The smell of dirt and sweat mingles with old liquor and distant vomit. Somehow I do manage to find a decently clean shirt and pair of paints for him that I leave on the shelf in the bathroom, and I help myself to an old pair of pajama pants that sit folded and redundant in his drawer. When he finally stumbles down the stairs I’m curled into his armchair in the living room. “Y’left this in there” he grumbles, holding out a half empty bottle. His pointed brows don’t tell me he’s happy about me going through his liquor supply, but at the same time I know he’s not going to do anything about it because I can see he’s already helped himself to a fresh bottle to accompany it. “I’m fine” I mutter back, holding up my own new bottle that sits in my lap. Neither of us say anything for a few moments until he drops down onto the couch across the room, “You gonna tell me why you’re here then?” I can understand why he’d be perplexed. I never come over in the middle of the day, much less stay. But I figure I’ve been here a few hours already before he dragged himself into consciousness, and he doesn’t need to know that. “…I…” I’m all set to tell him what happened, to recount this morning’s events with as much apathy and distance as I can manage so I don’t look like an over emotional wreck. But the words just won’t come to my lips. They flinch and stammer and try to pull them from my tongue but they just won’t form properly in my mouth. My eyes sink and I can feel it as I become more and more disappointed in myself, the gruff sigh from across the room that brushes over the brim of the bottle catches my attention, and it’s the dull, sinking grief stretched across Haymitch’s features that reassure me I never really needed to use words to talk to him. It’s why I come here. It’s why, when I can’t stand to be suffocated by Peeta’s pleasantries, or get caught by his outbursts, or just need somewhere I can be understood –not without judgement, but- without obligation, I come to Haymitch. Because we don’t have to speak. We don’t have to clutter the air that’s already riddled with words unsaid about our shared guilt and grief and debt to the man I left locked up in his own home. He takes a drink and the faint memory of Peeta’s hands around my neck starts to rear its ugly head again and I find myself bringing the bottle to my lips too. “What happened” he asks and I’m a little taken aback by the sobriety in his tone. His eyes hang on my solemnly, though there’s not an ounce of pity there. “…He just…I thought he was ok and then he just…he lost it. He threw a tea-pot at me and pinned me to the wall. He tried to strangle me again.” I cut myself off before I feel his fingers pinch my voice to the point of cracking. My eyes travel downwards to linger on my worn fingers tracing small shapes on the side of the glass bottle in my grip, watching the slim movements absently. “What happened” he asks again. I look up at him briefly, my brow twisting into a question. He heard me just fine. Then I catch on. “…I don’t know. We were just…talking…He made breakfast, tea…” somehow it feels wrong to be talking about this with Haymitch. About this little life we have. About our little routines and gestures. I don’t like it. I don’t want to bring that here. It doesn’t belong here. “…He wanted to come to the woods with me. I said–…shit” my breath leaves me in a dull exhale as my eyes roll closed. How could I have been so stupid? “…I said, I said no. Because he’d just scare off all the game again….Like, like he did in the games…I-I guess it brought something back, I didn’t…I didn’t even think…” it was me. It was my fault. In a strange way I’m glad. A portion of my brain is relieved to be punished. To have some slice of the guilt atoned for. It’s vague and pathetic and I’d never say it out loud, but the rest of me feels sick. Washed over with a thick, black tar that slowly covers me. “When do you ever” is the snarky response I receive. My eyes harden and snap up to him as he takes another bitter swig, “What?” it’s more of a breath than a word. “When do you ever think, I said” his head lolls to the side apathetically as he looks back at me. “Thanks, Haymitch”

“What? You think you can just oh-so-casually bring that shit up and nothing happen-?”

“No, I didn’t…”

“Exactly”

“I didn’t come here to get treated like some dumb kid”

“No, y’didn’t. You came here so you could leech off my booze, laze around my house, avoid your husband, and find some cheap consolation like me telling you it’s alright it’s not your fault. I don’t care what you do with my booze, so long as you bring back more. You can laze around, that’s fine, you gotta leave sometime. But if you think I’m just gonna sit here and stroke your damn ego and make a martyr out of you then you can go to hell.”

There’s nothing I can say. I know he cares about Peeta, know he has his own guilt, which isn’t my problem. I didn’t say I wanted his sympathy. I wanted….I don’t know what I wanted. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. This has just become my safe house. My solace. I can drink without being judged. I can speak my mind or sit silently and no one will care one way or the other. I can be understood and empathised with. “If you wanted to be babied, you should’ve asked Peeta” he cruelly retorts. And I have no more words to throw at him. So I just lift the bottle to my lips for another mouthful to dull the scratching in my throat.

When there are bottle scattered across the floor we start to speak again. The last few hours have drifted by in a silent blur of shuffling from kitchen to armchair, gathering up a new bottle and returning to my seat. Each trip being more fraught with bumps and bangs, and taking longer than the last. I lie across the armchair, my legs folded over one arm and my head falling back against the other. Haymitch lies sprawled across the couch, bottle rested in his hand on his stomach. “…Y’know. You said I didn’t deserve him. And I didn’t. I don’t. I won’t. But I deserved this morning….” I can feel my head nod lazily through a haze of liquor and make out Haymitch’s gruff chuckle from across the room that draws my head round to lie on my cheek and face him with a pinched brow. “Thanks” the sarcasm in my voice is hopefully biting but I can already tell it’s just exaggerated and distorted. “You don’t. You won’t. You don’t appreciate what he does for you. You don’t see it. You…You take the piss. You fuck around with the poor boy…And I let you” I just watch him for a few moments while he speaks, picking at the way he looks at me. And without thinking or caring my thoughts find a clear path to my tongue, “Why are you looking at me like that” I ask.

“Like what” he responds tiredly, his eyes still not moving.

“Like I’m on fire” I leave it a moment. Let the words set into the air. But he doesn’t seem to grasp them right away. His brow furrowing slightly as he tilts his head at me, bidding me to go on. But instead of questioning my words come out as disgusted, but not disgusted with him, disgusted with myself.

“Like I’m burning. Like I burn up everything I touch. Like you can’t stop it. Like you don’t want to.”

The silence stretches out between us. Neither one moves their eyes nor brings a bottle to their lips to break the stillness. Instead he just carefully draws a breath, exhaling with heavy eyes, “Cause you are, sweetheart” a dim, sick smirk forces itself into the corners of his lips that soon close around the brim of the bottle.

“You’re ok with watching me burn…”

“…I can’t stop you”

His brows stretch up, and I know he’s right. I’m too old now to be babied by Haymitch, to have him looking out for me at every turn. His duties of care toward Peeta and I are long since over. He’s probably trying to teach me some life lesson about dealing with my own problems myself. Putting out the fires I start and repairing the damage, or making it so I don’t cause the damage in the first place. And I know exactly what he means by it. “No. You can’t” I can feel my words slurring but the mumble is loud enough for him to here as I peel myself out of the armchair and amble over to the couch, perching myself haphazardly on the edge. From where he lies he just looks up at me, there’s an annoyance in his eyes but it’s too far buried by liquor and something else. But it’s not something that entices me in, it’s something intended to push me away. And I see it as I move my hand to his shoulder, leaning over him and pressing my chest to his before I press a kiss to his lips; tasting the spike of liquor on his tongue and feeling the warmth of his hand as it move up my back. My fingers drift to curl over his shirt collar, snaking my hand beneath the fabric and moving over the warm, bare skin of his shoulder. That familiar feeling starts to stir deep within me, in that darker place in my abdomen that assures me I am burning as it fuels me to press closer to him. As I pull away to draw a breath I inch my body further onto the couch, almost lying on top of him until he lets out an irritated sigh. I pause a brief moment, “What?” His eyes move over me as I rest just a few inches above him, eventually meeting my eyes again, and it becomes clear that it’s a struggle for him to keep his open. “I’m beat. It’s late. You need to go home. Remember that husband you have locked in your house?” a single brow arches up at me, oddly enough that was precisely what I was trying to avoid.

“I can’t go home like this”

“You’ve gone home trashed plenty of times”

“You know what I mean”

“Trashed and horny?”

“Haymitch…”

“You’re married aren’t you? Go home to him”

“If I wanted to sleep with him I’d be there”

“Well either you go home to him or you take yourself off upstairs for some alone time”

It’s almost the crudest thing to leave his mouth, and it leaves me a little floundered as he shifts me off him and climbs up off the couch. The bottle sags in his grip as he shuffles hazily towards the door. He shouldn’t have mentioned Peeta. That’s one of the rules. We don’t talk about him if I come over for…Well, for this. This is what happens. This is what we do. We didn’t mean to. I’d come over for a drink every so often, more so when Peeta got bad. I’d check up on Haymitch, share a few drinks. Then we had too much. Then I stopped going to a while, then it happened again. And we never really stopped. It’s not real. It doesn’t mean anything. But we both hate it because of Peeta. Because he cares about us, he trusts us. And we’re doing this to him. And we don’t talk about that. Which is why the burning in my abdomen is extinguished, only to set my blood ablaze as I spit across the room in a vicious slur, “Go fuck yourself”

“Right back at you” he smiles a blunt and sickly grin at me that bleeds with sarcasm even in his intoxicated state as he moves out into the hall, leaving me on the couch in the darkened living room alone.

His footsteps galumph up the stairs with mutters and groans to himself as he trips and falls on every other step. I take my bottle with me as I make for the door, refusing to let my eyes catch the man staggering up the stairs in the dark as I fumble with the door and step outside into the cold. The cold of night is a great stretch from the cold of day; it’s not simple and kind, or comforting and relaxed. It’s brittle and hard, cutting and biting. I’m only thankful I don’t have far to walk. Dirt sticks to my bare feet again, but I hardly notice it as I meander along the route back to the house in the dark, lifting the bottle to my lips every so often.

It’s just under half empty by the time I stop on the porch. What if he’s still sick? What if he hasn’t calmed down yet? What if he’s found a more efficient weapon than his hands? The thoughts rush through my head in a sickly pool that swirls in my mind like thick caramel. I chew on my lip as I ease the key into the lock, twisting it carefully and cringing at the sound of it turning over. The house is dark as I slip in, quietly closing the door behind me and locking it, leaving the key there as before. There’s no sign of Peeta. Not downstairs at least. As carefully as I can manage I make my way upstairs, hovering just before the door to our bedroom, with the faint sounds of breath coming from inside. Hesitantly I push the door open, peering into the darkened room lit only by the vague streams of silvery moonlight that drip in through the veiled window. I can just about make out the shadowed form in the bed, bundled in sheets and turned on his side. And I decide I’m in no mood to wake him. I close the door silently behind me and find the way back down the stairs easier than before, without the worry that he’ll be waiting for me behind some corner. I know it’s stupid, and I know I’ll realise it later. But for now the fear felt aching. I take my bottle and deposit myself onto the couch, taking frequent sips from the bottle as if it might calm my burning anger at the two of them. At Peeta for not realising what’s going on under his nose, for not hating me for it, for not seeing me for what I am and not casting me out because of it. At Haymitch…For just being Haymitch. I’m not so slowly running out of liquor, and each swill is a warm comfort that hits my throat and eases me further and further until I’m practically sinking into the couch. And though the drink mildly subdues my anger, it doesn’t eliminate it. And what’s more it spurs on the frustration from a burning in my abdomen that no one will neither fuel nor put out. My hand drifts absently to the elastic in the borrowed pajama pants, slipping beneath them with ease and drifting down further with gentle touches. It’s as much as can be said for a kind of small vengeance on the both of them. Though it’s never been my right to exact any kind of vengeance on either of them.


	2. Prologue

The crisp autumn air rushes coolly past my ears, carrying the faint echo of umber leaves that crunch underfoot as I walk up the path toward my house. Our house. My jacket, the old brown leather warm and familiar as it wraps around me, bundling me up against the brittle air around me. Fingers curl around the cool metal of the doorknob as open the door, stepping through into the little cloud of warmth that comes from the house. It’s always warm. Peeta likes it. I do to, but sometimes the stuffiness of it creeps over me with the constant nerving presence of my husband’s teetering stability and I have to escape elsewhere. Though not always to the cool and calm of the woods; the rooms in the other house are often seeping with brisk drafts, curling curtains with the breeze from doors ajar and poorly repaired windows.

As I step through the smell hits me immediately: the heavy perfume of oil paints that weighs upon the air as I move through the hall. I’m sure it adds to the warmth of the air, it’s familiar smell that I’ve come to associate with home and with him. With quiet steps I move toward the door of the back room where the faint scratches of worn brushes against canvas can be dimly heard, hovering in the doorway as I watch the movements of his hand let the brush flow delicately over the painting of a bunch of flowers that sit in a vase before him on the dining table. It hardly looks like he’s touching the pristine canvas with his light strokes. There’s a pointed look of concentration on his face, but it melts from his features and the corners of his lips turn up into a sweetened smile as he notices I’m there. “Hey” he says warmly as he sets down his implements and stands, I feel obliged to mimic his easy movements as he starts walking towards me, baggy shirt flecked with paint and arms out wide to welcome me. “Good hunt?” he asks and any recognition of my lack of game is buried completely by his innocent tone. He is innocent. Innocent and kind and sweet and pure. And he tries, he tries to hold my interest and tries to make our lives bearable with each other. But I see him when he can’t look at me with his muscles strained and teeth clenched as his fists bunched. I feel him when he thinks I’m still asleep and his body lurches forward in the bed beside me with a scream restrained in his throat for fear he’ll wake me. I hear it in the way he snaps at me in the slightest of words when I’m pushing for any sort of acceptance that I am the dreadful remains of a person he once loved that he refuses to acknowledge. And all of it comes crashing into my brain at once when he puts his arms around me. As strong and secure as they ever were, and it’s a reflex now to return the hold, no matter how much softer my own arms are compared to his. “No, nothing really” I mumble over his shoulder and hope it’s enough to hold down the lie. I prepare the image in my mind of the woods damp and patterned with cold sunlight through the canopy and my arrow firing and barely scathing a small deer. It’s blurred and marred with my own lie but it’s enough to steady me in his arms and the calmness of his body is all I need to accept that it worked. Now all I can hope is that he doesn’t smell the bitterness on my clothes that doesn’t come from the kind of dirt you pick up in the woods. And when he moves back with a small smile I know his head is about to move closer to mine and I duck out of his arms, “It’s beautiful” the words are quick to leave my lips and fight the fever that brews in my throat as I stand and admire the painting with half glazed eyes. I don’t care about the flowers in the picture, I care that if I let him kiss me he’ll taste the burning liquor on my lips left there by the person whose hand comes to mind when I feel Peeta’s on my shoulder as he comes to stand behind me.


End file.
